Me and a Guy Named Elvis

by Jerry Schilling

  While Elvis was still a teenager, he was being told that he was a “corrupter of youth” and a “traitor to his race.” But rather than answering with any kind of “screw you,” he handled it all with dignity and humility—a manner that could come only from an inner strength. As his career started to pick up—when he really started to get to the point where he had something to lose—he had the strength of purpose to casually step over the color lines in Memphis, turning up, for example, as a respectful white face in an all-black audience at WDIA’s annual “Goodwill Revue” gala concert. (When he was brought out on stage by Rufus Thomas to say hello to the crowd, he received a warm and enthusiastic ovation. Despite lingering notions to the contrary, the black population of Memphis got what Elvis was doing and knew what he was up against, and he deeply appreciated their support.)

  The way Elvis handled his fame in the early years tells you a lot about his character. By early 1957, Elvis was successful enough that he could have said good-bye to Memphis forever and become a permanent resident of a Beverly Hills mansion. He’d moved on from his role in Love Me Tender to a starring role in Loving You. In the spring he had another number-one hit with “All Shook Up,” and then he was back out to Los Angeles to star in his third film, Jailhouse Rock. But Memphis was home, and home meant everything to Elvis. So he was very excited when he found a beautiful place just south of downtown that he felt might make a perfect Memphis home for him, his mom and dad, and his grandmother. A place called Graceland.

  I stood in front of a custom-built gate decorated with an iron guitar and music notes, peering up the gentle sloping hill of oak trees to the grandest structure I’d ever laid eyes on. The impressive stone facade, the huge colonial pillars, the welcoming portico—this was a long way from Lauderdale Courts, and I was a long way from Leath Street.

  After finishing eighth grade at Holy Names, I’d ended up at Catholic High School out in Midtown Memphis, not too far from Overton Park. There had been a brief detour at Christian Brothers College—the school my brother had attended—but I felt miserable and out of place there. Billy Ray, again stepping up to his big-brother duties, suggested to my father that I’d be a lot happier and better off at Catholic High. I did have a good first year there, and I also got used to exploring a wider circle of Memphis, riding the bus, hitchhiking, or, when I could get it, driving Dad’s Pontiac.

  So, on a fine summer day, I had decided to head down Highway 51 to check out Graceland. The gates I stood at had clearly gone up for a reason—there was a group of fans, mostly girls, clustered around the entrance, chatting away and showing off pictures and autographs to each other. Elvis and his family had been in the house for only a few months, but already these fans seemed like they were very comfortable just spending a day at the edge of the property, hoping they might catch sight of Elvis coming or going. They were inspired by Elvis and wanted some way to get closer to him. I could certainly understand that. At this point Elvis was out of town more than he was in Memphis, but these fans were on top of the Elvis schedule enough to know when he was up at the house.

  Through Red West and some of the other football guys, I’d become friendly with George Klein. George was a Humes classmate of Elvis’s, and though the two had not been close while in high school, their paths had continued to cross as Elvis’s music career took off and George headed off on a radio career (he had learned the business hanging around Dewey Phillips, and went on to become a top DJ in his own right—also one of the very first to play Elvis’s records). George was a strong, early, enthusiastic supporter of Elvis, and out of their professional contact, a real friendship grew.

  As a rock-and-roll DJ back then, George had a cool and a toughness all his own—he was a sharp, solid guy who had an almost superhuman knowledge of everything going on in popular music. His family had actually lived on Leath Street for a while, and my mother had babysat for him when he was small. He was an Elvis inner-circle guy that I considered very approachable. I don’t remember him playing much football, but he came to a lot of the Guthrie games, and our own friendship began to develop. Through George, I heard that Elvis was starting to have people up to the house. That’s what had brought me to the gate.

  Just behind the brick columns on the right side of the gate was a small guardhouse, which was being manned by an older guy with the strong chin and great hair of the Presley clan: This, I would learn, was Uncle Vester, brother of Elvis’s father, Vernon Presley, who had already been assigned the gatekeeper position that he would hold for many years. I gathered up my courage and signaled to him. I cleared my throat and hoped that I could keep my voice low without having it crack the way it had been doing lately.

  “My name is Jerry Schilling. I was wondering if I could go up to the house. If…if it’s all right.”

  Vester eyed me for a moment.

  “Jerry, is it?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. Jerry Schilling.”

  Vester ambled over to the guardhouse and picked up a phone. I couldn’t hear what was said, but a minute later the gate started to swing open. The crowd of fans began to buzz with excitement, but they knew the drill well enough not to try to swarm through the open gate. I think I remember a few startled breaths when the group realized that I was the one who was being granted access—and to be honest, I was a little startled myself. Vester waved me up the long driveway, and I headed up the hill.

  I was excited and a little anxious to be on Elvis’s property, headed for his home. But as soon as I stepped into the dappled shadows of those oak trees, I was hit with a feeling that was quite unusual for me: peacefulness. There was a calm and tranquillity that seemed to be part of the air around Graceland, and I couldn’t help but relax, breathe a little deeper, and walk a little easier.

  About halfway up the drive I realized that there was a figure coming toward me. There was the Presley chin and the hair again, but this time it was Vernon. I was struck by the fact that Vernon had an easy walk that looked very familiar to me—he seemed to have adopted Elvis’s unique loping, shoulder-rolling manner of strolling, even keeping one arm at his belt just the way Elvis did. (Later I would mention to Billy Ray how strange it was that the dad would copy his son’s walk. Billy Ray asked if I had considered that maybe Elvis had gotten the walk from his dad. Frankly, I hadn’t considered that. It seemed to me that everything in the world keyed on Elvis. But Billy Ray was right, and Vernon deserves credit for the distinctive Presley walk.)

  “Vester let you up?” Vernon asked. The voice was a little rougher around the edges, but had the same warm lilt as his son’s.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Go ahead, then. Elvis is down. All the boys are downstairs.” (I’d soon learn that at Graceland, Elvis was either upstairs, seeking privacy in the bedroom and office that took up most of the second floor of the house, or he was “down,” ready and willing to spend time with visitors.)

  I walked past a pair of cement lions guarding the walkway to the house and stepped past the magnificent columns to the front door. It’d be great to say that Elvis was right there at the door, welcoming me in, but it would be a lie. I’m not sure who walked me into Graceland on that first visit—all I know is that in taking that first step into that incredible home, I felt like I was stepping into a place better than anything I could have dreamed up. To me, a really nice house was one that had fairly fresh paint and a bedroom for each kid living there. I had no idea that a house could be a thing of overwhelming beauty, but that’s what I took in as soon as I was over the Graceland threshold. There was a blue ceiling that gave the illusion of an indoor sky, impossibly white carpets, a stairway trimmed in gold, mirrors everywhere, and furnishings that looked fit for a palace.

  I followed the sounds of voices and music down a mirrored stairway to a pair of rooms that, even at first glance, struck me as just about any boy’s vision of the ultimate secret clubhouse. To the left was a hangout room with low-slung sofas, a TV and record player set into the far wall, and what looked like a fully stocked soda
fountain (the room became known as “the TV room”). A room to the right was dominated by a full-size, ornate pool table. Framed gold 45s created a one-of-a-kind molding at the top of the walls.

  The rooms weren’t immense, but were big enough to comfortably hold the dozen or so people partying down there. I recognized a few faces right away. George Klein was there, and so was Billy Smith, one of Elvis’s cousins who was about my age and who’d become a speedy, wide-receiving regular at the football games. Alan Fortas was a friend of George’s who’d recently started showing up at games—he was a sturdy, good-humored guy from Central High on the east side of town (Elvis liked him enough to give him a nickname derived from his short haircut and prominent appendages: “Hog Ears”). A few girls were sitting in the TV room, including Elvis’s girlfriend Anita Wood—a pretty, upbeat blonde who was often at our football games. She’d caught Elvis’s eye as the cohost of a local TV show called Dance Party with Wink Martindale, and the two now seemed to be a pretty serious couple. There was also Patsy Presley, Elvis’s double first cousin (their fathers were brothers, their mothers were sisters). She was also about my age, a quiet, centered girl who proved that the Presley good looks translated very well to the female form.

  Maybe I got a hello or a nod from some of the other guests, but I know nobody made any big fuss about my arrival. Remember, even though we were in one of the biggest houses in Memphis, in the presence of the biggest star in the world, this was still essentially just a bunch of kids getting together. Our host was only twenty-two. And, like any bunch of young people hanging out, everything was informal and casual. Nobody made a big deal out of anything; the big deal was that we were all there.

  I spotted Elvis in the pool room—he was just lining up his next shot. He was smoking a cigarette, which he never did at the football games, and he had a great way of holding the cigarette in his teeth as he leaned over the table. As cool as he looked, he missed sinking a striped ball in a corner pocket. It didn’t look like it fazed him, but with the bottom of his cue he gave a sharp poke to the guy standing behind him—his cousin Gene Smith.

  “Ow! Wuzzat for, cuz?” howled Gene.

  Elvis kept his eyes on the table, looking like he had no idea what Gene was fussing about. As he watched the other players take their shots, the intensity on his face never waned. He was home, relaxing with friends, but he still clearly played to win.

  Gene had served as Elvis’s man Friday since the first records had taken off. Elvis and Gene were very close and had a great relationship—sometimes it seemed that they spoke their own private language together. The funny thing about Gene was that, even though Elvis understood him, it was hard for anybody else to make sense of what he said. And early on, when Elvis started to get a sense of how precious his own time was and how many people wanted a piece of it, he put Gene in charge of access: If you wanted to talk business with Elvis, you had to talk to Gene first. And if you could handle Gene-time, then Elvis knew you might be worth some of his own time. Gene rose to the challenge of his position with Elvis by adopting a more businesslike appearance—he began to carry a briefcase. But the contents of the briefcase weren’t often very business-oriented—it was more likely that Gene would be carrying around a doorknob, a pair of pliers, and a sandwich than any kind of Elvis-related paperwork.

  I recognized some of the other pool sharks. One was a very big fellow named Lamar Fike, who’d met Elvis through George Klein. Lamar had spent time with Elvis out in Los Angeles while Elvis was working on Jailhouse Rock, and had quickly become a part of his inner circle. Lamar’s natural facial expression was a scowl, but he had a dark, dry sense of humor that became more evident as you got to know him. Gene and Lamar were characters, but the fact was that just about everyone around Elvis was a character of some sort. You had to do something a little out of the ordinary to get his attention and make it worth his while to let you into his world. Elvis was a very young guy suddenly caught up in the big business of the entertainment world, and the last thing he wanted was to spend time with business types. He was looking for people he could trust and people he could have fun with. I didn’t want to disappoint him on either count.

  “Who’s the wise guy that put that goddamn music on?” It was Elvis, calling loudly from the pool room to the TV room. He kind of sounded like he was joking, but his voice had an angry edge to it—an edge I hadn’t heard ever before. “All Shook Up” was playing on the built-in record player in the corner of the TV room.

  “Get that crap off,” yelled Elvis, coming through the doorway. There was no doubt that he was really angry. It was a Graceland lesson I wouldn’t forget: Elvis didn’t like hearing his records played at his own parties. He was proud of his work, but it was just that—his work. He lived with his music outside of the house—he didn’t need to hear it while he was trying to relax in his own basement.

  Both rooms went silent and somebody scrambled over to the machine to put on another record. Apologies were mumbled. Elvis didn’t yell again, but his mood remained darkened. And I quickly learned that when Elvis was in a dark mood, it put a chill in the room that everyone felt. He went back to the pool room and stood staring down hard at the table. Voices in the TV room remained subdued, and there was no more of the easy laughter that had been tumbling around between conversations. Elvis looked like he was caught between the urge to chew somebody out and the desire to calm himself down. After a few minutes, he tossed his cue hard against the wall and headed toward the doorway.

  I was feeling a little disappointed that even though I’d made it into his house, I hadn’t spoken a word to him. But as he passed me on the way to the stairs he said, in a quiet, almost somber voice: “Come up again some time, Jerry.”

  That’s all I needed. I’d be back.

  I started turning up at the Graceland gates whenever I knew Elvis was in town. Sometimes I was waved through by Uncle Vester just the way I had been the first time. Other times word came down that Elvis wasn’t seeing anybody. Sometimes there was a lot of waiting at the gate before word either way came down. At least one time I was waved up to the house (it was always “the house”—nobody in the know ever said “Graceland”) and ended up spending forty minutes at the front door, in the winter cold, waiting for somebody to remember to let me in. I know there were probably a lot of fans across the country who would have given anything just to be able to stand right outside that Graceland gate to catch a glimpse of the owner, even if they never got in. (Many times the folks at the gate got more than a glimpse—if Elvis was in the right mood, he was happy to stop his car at the gate and roll down the window and sign a few autographs.)

  For the people gathered at the gate, the big distinction was obviously between those who were allowed through and those who weren’t. Occasionally a new face would get the OK to go up to the house, though those faces were almost always female—I think Vester kept Elvis apprised when there were pretty young ladies down the drive, and, when Elvis was having people up, he didn’t mind including some new, unfamiliar girls. I had the chance to get to know some of these fan-friends pretty well—there was Sherry and Frances from Memphis and Darlene and Eileen who came all the way from Chicago (I even took Darlene out on a couple of dates).

  It was extremely rare that an unfamiliar guy would make it through the gate—Elvis had been put down or actually attacked enough times by strangers that he wasn’t going to take any chances in his own home. I’d also seen an offhand, stupid comment from some guy at the football games suck the fun out of those days for Elvis. It was already becoming hard for Elvis to find time to relax, and he wasn’t going to take a chance that a guy he couldn’t trust would spoil his fun.

  Times up at the house in that period really did feel like a little stretch of paradise. Sometimes we hung around outside, at a beautiful gazebo area off the side of the house (where the trophy room is today). There was a bar out there that served up cold sodas, and a carefully stocked jukebox that played the hits of the day (I’m not sure who loaded the re
cords—maybe someone from the jukebox company—but the problem was that the hits of the day always included a fair amount of Elvis tunes—“Teddy Bear,” “Jailhouse Rock,” and “Don’t” were all number-one songs in late ’57 and early ’58, and the Loving You and Christmas albums were at the top of charts. We became very careful about what song buttons we pressed).

  Graceland had, and still has, a look of luxury. But I can’t stress enough the low-key, easy, good-natured feel of those early days there. There was cold Pepsi, play-to-win eight-ball games, a little dancing, a little teasing, and a lot of joking around. Of course, we didn’t feel like we were being “wholesome”—this was life on the edge back then. We were staying up later than anybody else in town (in my case certainly later than anybody else at Catholic High) and hanging out at the “in” place in Memphis. Elvis was still considered dangerous, and we were all willing to have a little of that danger rub off on us.

  The Graceland gatherings might be described as “parties,” but they never had the feeling of events. It was just a natural get-together of the people Elvis considered friends, and I think in a lot of ways those days at Graceland were his way to catch up and enjoy the kind of good times and friendships that he hadn’t had in high school, and that were extremely difficult to come by now that the world saw him as a star.

  In that regard, I don’t think my youth ever counted against me in getting through those Graceland gates. I was fifteen, and Billy Smith and Patsy Presley were right around that age, too, and I think Elvis liked having some young, innocent energy around him. Away from Graceland, he’d been catapulted into a grown-up world of burdens and responsibilities that he hadn’t ever imagined when he first sang “That’s All Right” in Sam Phillips’s storefront studio, and I think that the chance to spend time with people like us who didn’t want anything from him but his friendship was the real luxury that Graceland offered.